by Lily Maxton
She glanced toward Willoughby, who eyed them distrustfully from his warm spot by the hearth.
“I don’t think the cat wants to play,” Georgina said. She wrapped Maria up, tickled her feet until she giggled.
“When I was in Oban the other day, I heard rumors that some thieves attempted to steal a flock on Stonehaven’s land,” Annabel said. “The shepherd claims he was shot at.”
Georgina carefully didn’t look up. She kept her head bent, wiggling Maria’s little toes. “Was he hurt?”
“No—” Georgina released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “He came out unscathed. I do wonder if they’re the same thieves who targeted us.”
She shrugged, keeping her face impassive. She hated lying to her family, but she didn’t see an alternative. “It’s possible.”
“Well, they’re making plenty of enemies. I hope they stop while they’re ahead.”
Georgina glanced at her sister-in-law. Annabel was embroidering a pillow for Maria, but it was a rather, sad, lumpy thing—she wasn’t much for the feminine arts. “I’m surprised you care.”
“Come now, George. I’m not heartless. I might not be happy about getting stolen from, but I don’t know if any of them deserve to swing at the end of a rope, and you can bet some of these landlords would be more than pleased by that outcome.”
A chill went through her. She’d known, of course, that what Mal and the others were doing was dangerous. She’d encountered the danger firsthand. But hearing Annabel state so plainly what would happen to them if they didn’t stop thieving…
She knew Mal wanted to make enough for his men to have a future, but what about Mal himself?
Would he ever stop?
And why did she care about his fate? She would never see him again.
She would never see him again.
The thought was a stiletto to the heart.
“Let’s shoot something,” Georgina said abruptly.
“Erm…what?”
If Lachlan coped with life by setting things on fire, Georgina typically coped by doing one of three things—long, strenuous walks on the moors, playing music until her hands hurt, or shooting practice.
“It’s been a while since I’ve practiced. I’m rusty.”
“Very well. Frances might like to come along, too.” Annabel scooped Maria from Georgina’s lap. “Shall we go visit Papa?”
Georgina hid a smirk. It was so odd to hear Theo called Papa. She wondered if her brother found it odd as well.
About twenty minutes later, the three women met in an open spot outside the curtain wall where bags of straw-filled white cloth stood on wooden posts. A target was drawn onto each canvas bag.
The sky above was gray, the wind slight. A cool breeze touched Georgina’s face and bare hands while she tore open a little packet of black powder and poured it into the muzzle of her pistol.
“Did I tell you the schoolteacher left yesterday?” Annabel said, jamming in her bullet with more force than necessary.
“Did he?” Frances asked.
“Ran off with one of the crofter’s daughters to elope, and gave me no notice whatsoever. The nerve of the blasted man. I thought this school was a good idea—”
“It is a good idea,” Frances reassured her. “A few bumps in the road don’t change that.”
“A few.” Annabel snorted. “The first teacher left because the students were too rambunctious. This one could handle them fine and simply didn’t stay. And I already had to convince some of the tenants to let their children be taught at all. This certainly won’t give them confidence in me.”
“You’ll find someone else,” Frances said.
“I suppose I’ll continue lessons while I ask around and send out advertisements. But I can’t do it all myself.” Annabel looked at them hopefully, pistol dangling from her fingertips.
“I should have known this was coming,” Georgina said.
“It will only be a temporary arrangement. Just until I find someone.”
Frances and Georgina glanced at each other. “I suppose we must,” Frances said.
“It is for the children,” Georgina added, dubiously.
“That’s right. Think of the children.” Annabel aimed, fired, and hit a bull’s-eye. She smiled at them through the cloud of gun smoke. “Not bad.”
“Beginner’s luck,” Georgina muttered.
“What was that?” Annabel asked sweetly.
Georgina lined up her shot, cocked the hammer. Her memory flashed back to a little isle and her heart pounding and Mal’s smile, fireside. And the way he looked at her, like she was more than she’d ever realized, more than she’d dreamed she could be. She remembered another night, racing across the moors, the cold bite of steel against her fingers, shooting blindly to save Mal.
It wasn’t that long ago, but it felt like a dream. Another life. Another person entirely.
“Georgina?” Annabel asked.
She’d paused, finger on the trigger, breath still caught in her lungs.
She exhaled.
“I’ll help you.”
She could use all the distractions she could get.
…
The problem with carving out the things that hurt you, Mal thought later, was that some things simply refused to let go. Every time he told himself not to think about Catriona, he inevitably thought of her. Wondered if she was with a husband somewhere. If she was telling stories about them, laughing at how foolish they all were.
They left Colin’s cottage when Mal had healed enough to move. Left behind the memories.
Or tried to.
It wasn’t until he’d had some time and some distance, when his anger changed from fierce and pounding to more of a dull ache, that he began to think more clearly.
And realized something wasn’t right.
Catriona had stayed, had done her best to fit in with them, until they’d gotten to the crofter’s cottage.
Had she been scared off by the raid?
It was possible.
But then he remembered how she’d cradled the music box in her hands, careful, almost stiff, like she didn’t want to hurt it. He remembered her words—How do you know it didn’t mean something to her?
At the time, he’d overlooked it. But why did Catriona care about someone who meant nothing to her?
Unless…unless…unless…
She knew who it belonged to.
Was she a servant of the Arden estate? A lady’s maid?
Why had she risked her life to get the music box back? It might fetch a decent price, but it wasn’t as though it was worth a fortune. Had she been compelled? Did she care about her mistress that much?
Why?
Every new discovery only brought new questions, like he was trapped in a spiral with no end. And above all else was one question, beating at his skull, tearing at his heart, unwilling to let him go:
Who are you, Catriona MacPherson?
Who are you?
“What’s our next move?” Lachlan asked one night as they sat beside the fire.
Mal stared at the writhing flame. He’d nearly cost his men their freedom, their lives. He’d watched that shepherd before they’d carried out their plan, even looked through his things. But the pistol the shepherd carried must have been kept hidden…tucked into a boot, probably.
Mal rubbed at his face tiredly.
Going on another raid so soon would be suicide.
Since Stonehaven, Mal’s failure was always at the back of his mind, a constant sting. What was he worth if he couldn’t even save the few people who’d come to rely on him?
His mind ran in circles—Catriona, their close call, the lost sheep, his failure—until he could barely think.
“Lachlan,” he said, one weary morning after one more restless night. “There’s been a change of plans.”
Chapter Fourteen
Plan might have been an overstatement. Mal had a vague notion of going to Llynmore Castle, of seeing Catriona, discovering the tr
uth, and finally putting the last few weeks behind him. He hoped that with one puzzle solved, he could get back to the question of providing for his men.
Of course, once they arrived to the sight of a foreboding stone structure looming on the horizon, gray turrets piercing a blue sky, he wasn’t sure exactly how to go about it.
They could sneak in, in the dead of night, like Lachlan had. But they’d known the earl wasn’t in residence then. Now he was. And Mal had always been a little more cautious than Lachlan, anyway.
He left Ewan, Andrew, and Lachlan in what seemed to be an abandoned cottage, if the hole in the roof was any indication. He wondered what family had lived there, and where they’d gone. Had they been forced from their home, from the only land they’d ever known?
Probably.
It wasn’t that uncommon a fate for a Highlander. The world was changing, and they were getting left behind. Tossed away like so much wrack and ruin.
Alone, Mal crested the next rise on horseback to look at the distant castle—a fortress straight out of the fifteenth century, with a curtain wall to protect from long-dead enemies. Was Catriona there, right at this moment?
His heart ached, with anger, and something else. Something he didn’t want to examine.
He was trying to decide if he should get closer, when out of the corner of his eye, a burst of motion caught his attention.
There was…a woman.
Barreling toward him on horseback.
He thought about turning, but he was on a stocky Highland pony, and she was riding a sleek chestnut Thoroughbred. He wouldn’t make much headway before she caught up.
The woman pulled up a few yards from him, blond hair tumbling around her shoulders, cheeks pink.
“Good day!”
She was smiling like she was very pleased to see him. Mal felt a little uneasy. No one should look that happy to see him—especially when he hadn’t even made an effort to charm her yet.
“Good day,” he returned carefully.
“I thought you’d never arrive, Mr. Rochester.” She paused when he didn’t respond. “You are Mr. Rochester, are you not?”
Was he? If this Rochester fellow didn’t show up, it might be a good way to get into Llynmore. It wasn’t as if he would be there long…just until he had his answers.
He decided to take the risk.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he said.
Her face slackened with relief. “Oh, thank God. George and Frances are at their wits’ end.”
Mal had no idea who she was referring to. She seemed to sense his confusion.
“But forgive my rudeness, sir. I’m Lady Arden, of course. It is a delight to meet you.”
Mal stared at her, feeling like he was watching them both from a distance.
Lady Arden?
Lady Arden?
She was…nothing like he’d expected. Not that Mal spent much time thinking about aristocrats, but weren’t countesses supposed to be haughty and disdainful? This woman wasn’t either of those things.
Or perhaps she was and she simply hid it well.
“Follow me,” she said, taking the reins again. “We’ll get you settled first.” She tossed a careless smile at him from over her shoulder. “I’m so excited for you to start. The children will be thrilled to meet you, I’m sure.”
Wait, what? Children?
Mal nearly balked. But she was guiding her horse into a trot, and Mal didn’t have much choice but to follow.
And wonder what the hell he’d just gotten himself into.
…
“I think the new teacher will work out well,” Annabel said.
“How do you know that?” From what Annabel had been telling Georgina, he’d only just arrived and settled into the cottage near the quarry. He wouldn’t actually meet the children until tomorrow.
“He seemed to have a sense of authority about him.” At Georgina’s skeptical look, she said, “Sometimes you can just tell.”
Well, Georgina had thought she’d be able to handle the children better than she had, and she told Annabel as much. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the schoolchildren, but several of them were difficult to handle, and she found she didn’t have the heart to rein them in.
“You’re too free-spirited to be a good teacher. Children need a firm hand.”
Maria was sitting between Annabel and Theo on the settee, currently pulling at Annabel’s hair, trying to stuff one of the long, blond tendrils into her mouth. Georgina shot her a pointed look.
“Children of a certain age,” Annabel amended.
“I see,” Georgina said.
“Don’t use that dry tone with me. I’m more of a disciplinarian than Theo.”
“Why am I getting dragged into this?” Theo said mildly.
“I’m a better disciplinarian than all of you,” Frances said from her reading spot in the armchair by the fire.
“Oh, please,” Georgina said. “I see you sneaking her sweets when no one is looking. You’re trying to usurp me as the favorite aunt.”
“George!” She sniffed, then went back to peering at her book. “Anyway, I don’t know why you think you’re the favorite,” she muttered over the top of it.
“Frances!” Annabel exclaimed. “You’ll damage her teeth before they’ve even come in all the way.”
“Is that possible?” Theo pulled at his daughter’s upper lip to look, and Maria giggled.
Georgina sighed, exasperated and amused and fond. Becoming parents had changed Annabel and Theo. They were the same in many ways, of course—Annabel was still a little wild, the light to Theo’s dark, the only one who made him smile like he couldn’t contain it—but the focus of their world had shifted, the spot claimed by a girl who stumbled around trying to eat inanimate objects, who had Theo’s dark hair and Annabel’s pert nose and wide mouth.
The center of a small universe.
Georgina came out of her reverie when she heard the distant sound of a dog barking. She startled. “What was—”
But no one else had noticed. Annabel and Theo were too absorbed checking Maria’s teeth, and Frances was too absorbed in her book.
She went to the sash window. In the distance, a dog stood, nose pointed to the wind. Georgina pressed her face to the cool glass pane, heart beating erratically—the animal was a mix of colors, with the lithe build of a sheepdog, but it was impossible to tell its exact markings.
It could be anyone’s dog. They were in the Highlands, after all. There were plenty of sheep, and plenty of sheepdogs to go with them.
There was no reason to think the creature was Lu.
Except something about the dog struck a chord of memory. The line of its back, the tilt of its head, the curious way it sniffed the air. She knew this dog, didn’t she?
Georgina looked down. Her hands were trembling.
She looked back up.
The dog was gone.
She wanted to laugh. Instead she leaned her forehead against the glass, huffed out a sigh that fogged her view.
She was being haunted.
Chapter Fifteen
Twenty pairs of eyes were staring at Mal. Most were heavy-lidded, bored. A few were narrowed, outright disdainful. None of them looked happy to be there, exactly, except for a couple of younger children, who probably still assumed learning was fun.
Lady Arden had introduced him to the class and then gone off to do something with a vague promise that she’d return in a few minutes…after they became acquainted with one another. Mal had no desire to be acquainted with the little brats.
Mal had stared down the barrel of a gun. He’d dodged the sharp point of a bayonet. He’d killed for his country and nearly been killed in return. He’d been shot through the shoulder, for Christ’s sake. And yet he’d never felt quite as uncomfortable as he did standing in front of twenty unimpressed children.
Mal looked down at the girl closest to him. The school had both boys and girls attending, which was rare. Lady Arden must have been gifted in persuasion to conv
ince some of the tenants to send their daughters out for an education.
Some people were under the misconception that girls were the sweet antidote to their male counterparts—the girl in the front, who eyed Mal balefully, was quickly setting the record straight.
“What are you waiting for?” She muttered a curse in Gaelic. “Don’t stand there gawking at us!”
Mal ran his hand down his face, already feeling haggard, and he’d only been here for five minutes.
Names. He thought suddenly. He should ask their names.
It went well enough. Until the children grew restless about halfway through and began making up names. One boy claimed he’d been christened Thomas MacFartsmore, and the rest of the little bastards erupted into laughter.
“Where’s George?” the girl in the front asked. “She was more fun than you.”
“And Frances gave us sweetmeats!” someone in the back added.
Sweetmeats, bribery…not a bad idea.
Unfortunately, he didn’t keep sweetmeats in his pockets on the off chance that he’d run into unruly children. And who the hell were George and Frances?
“George and Frances are gone.”
That hushed them up.
“Gone?” One of them asked. “Do you mean…dead?”
Mal shrugged. “Could be.”
In hindsight, Mal probably shouldn’t have said that to a boy who looked to only be six or seven. A strange change came over his face. His chin dimpled. His bottom lip wavered. His wide eyes welled with moisture.
And then he broke into the noisiest sobs Mal had ever heard.
“Christ,” Mal muttered.
The girl in front—Abigail—pointed at him. “You swore!”
“So did you.”
“But I swore in Gaelic.”
“That doesn’t mean—” He stopped when he realized he was getting into an argument with someone who was probably fifteen years younger than him. The children weren’t even paying attention to him anymore. The room was a cacophony of sound—chatter and laughter and sobbing. A scream here and there for good measure.
